


He Can (Noctis Lucis Caelum)

by inconsistencys



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Character Death, Gen, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-26
Updated: 2017-11-26
Packaged: 2019-02-06 23:39:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12828591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inconsistencys/pseuds/inconsistencys
Summary: A birthday piece celebrating all that this little prince can do (all. the. angst.)





	He Can (Noctis Lucis Caelum)

**_“Happy birthday to you,”_ **

His knees were scraped and trembling, eyes filled with tears as he ran to his father. His bicycle was left behind, abandoned on the stone walkway of the Citadel garden.

“Should I put them back on?” the king nearly whispered the words, voice soft as he took his son in his arms. He cradled the prince protectively, cursing himself for taking the training wheels from the child’s bicycle for his sixth birthday.

The prince shook his head, face still buried in the man’s chest.

“No,” he replied, voice muffled from the fabric, “I can do it.”

The flowers were in full bloom, welcoming the sunlight reaching through the windows. The light touched their faces one by one, working its way to the small family seated in the shade. It was when the sunbeams reached his child’s face that Regis smiled, his features softening after an afternoon of paperwork and negotiations.

“Noctis,” the king raised a hand to his head, running his fingers through the young royal’s hair, “It’s okay if you can’t.”

The boy leaned back now, baby blue irises locking with his father’s as he looked to him. For a moment, Regis’s mind wandered to the late queen, his gaze lingering on the midnight-streaked hair flying about his son’s head.

_“I can do it, Papa,”_ the prince spoke slowly, trying to suppress the squeak in his voice before it could slip out in an effort to sound more grown-up. His father only chuckled, releasing his child with a toothy grin and a few words.

“Alright, son,” he said, one hand resting on the boy’s shoulder, “Do it, then.”

He nodded, waddling to the toppled bike with renewed determination. The sun danced in his footsteps, pushing him forward as his pudgy hands reached for handlebars. The helium giant was tangled in his hair, creating sparks in his eyes, shining through his pale, fragile skin, and it kept a gentle hand on his back as he pedaled on.

**_“Happy birthday to you,”_ **

He couldn’t ride his bicycle, anymore.

His hands rested on rubber wheels, pushing forward, backward, forward. The advisor kept him from going too far, gripping the handlebars with muscles that weren’t much older than his own.

“The doctor will be here soon, your Highness,” the advisor spoke slowly, lacing his words with formality, “Please be patient.”

“C’mon, Ignis,” Noctis whined, pushing harder on the wheels, “Just let me go, already. It’s _fine_.”

“No–” the light creaking of the door cut Ignis’s words in two as the specialist peeked inside, a slight smile slipping across his face when his eyes met those of Lucian royalty.

“Your Highness,” he spoke too loudly, too slowly for the prince to want to listen, “How are you feeling?”

“I’m not sick,” Noctis replied. Ignis jerked his chair forward.

“I know,” the doctor’s lips pushed themselves to stretch even more widely, “I meant to ask if you’ve felt any pain.”

“Nope.”

One arm snaked over the other, and the prince leaned back into his chair. His eyes wandered to the window, watching the light particles sneaking in to rest on his shoulders.

“Do you think you can walk, then?”

The boy’s posture straightened in a heartbeat. A smile graced his features for the first time in years as he nodded.

“Can I try?” he still hadn’t grown out of the height of his voice, but he had long given up on forcing it down. His words were hopeful, stringing together in a slur as his eyes met the specialist’s.

Before the doctor could answer, he was pushing himself from his chair.

Before the advisor could catch him, his knees were buckling under his weight, weak bones popping against broken joints as he collapsed. The sun reached for his arms and slithered around his sides, struggling to cushion his fall with its warmth. He let his cheeks rest against the tile for a moment, soaking in pain and failure while the light burned his back.

_“Noctis!”_ Ignis grabbed at his shoulder, breaking from formalities as he looked the prince up and down, “Are you okay?”

He nodded, fighting tears. He was ten, now. He was too old to cry over bruised knees.

“You know,” Ignis kept talking as he tried to lift the boy back into his chair, “It’s okay if you can’t do it. You’re still recovering.”

The prince’s eyes raised, meeting the advisor’s with a stubborn glare.

“Don’t worry, Ignis,” surety dripped from his tongue, _“I can do this.”_

Again, he picked himself up, allowing his weight to be shifted to his legs. A million suns danced in his vision when he stood, blinding him to the pain in his scarred ligaments. The light held him upright, and it was then, shrouded in sunlight and dust, that he took his first steps again.

**_“Happy birthday, dear Noctis,”_ **

He could still remember the way his father looked when he said goodbye.

The words that fell from the king’s mouth hours before his death, dripping with pride, carried him through his battles. When metal met his knees, forcing him to the ground in dizzying pain, Noctis found himself looking upward. It was in these moments that the ocean met the sky, and light sparkled across the waves in his irises as he forced himself to stand.

“Walk tall,” he said, letting the words linger on his lips as he staggered. His sword felt too heavy. His foes were coming in waves. The couplet bubbled faster from his throat, over and over, a commanding mantra. A reminder.

Walk tall.

“Noct!” a bullet whizzed past his ear, burying itself in a nearby magitek soldier. Prompto’s voice followed closely behind, “You okay, man?”

“Yeah,” he replied, swinging his sword into the closest enemy, “I’m good.”

Another blade ran across his back, ripping into his fair skin. Blood spilled from the wound, dripping into the fabric of his shirt. He could feel his jacket sticking to his spine as he turned, crying out as his weapon found the soldier’s chest.

“Hey, take it easy,” the Shield’s voice rumbled across the field as he swung his greatsword into a horde of enemies, “It’s looking kind of rough, here. You might want to sit this one out, Noct.”

The prince clenched his jaw, crushing a potion with his free hand as he lunged forward. “No,” he insisted, warping to a proper vantage point as he surveyed the area. He was twenty now – he could fight his own battles, damnit.

_“I can do this.”_

The sun reached for Eos, shining its light on the soldiers’ vulnerabilities. It nudged him from the high ground, sending him to the horde in a flash of blue light. Sunspots burned through his chest, and his heart swelled with his father’s memory as he tore through the army of the nation that took Regis away from him.

**_“Happy birthday”_ **

When the crown jewel stole the prince from the world, it was the sun that dove in after him. Light split the land of the crystal, leaving Eos in darkness as it searched for a king to carry home.

It found him wading, wandering, lost in a cloud of doubt. A decade of isolation had broken the man, and the hardheadedness that pushed him through the years was beginning to fall away. When the warmth of daylight rested its hand on his shoulder, he shrugged it off.

_“I can’t,”_ he spoke roughly, voice quivering. The light wrapped itself around his wrist.

“You _can_ ,” it whispered.

**_“to”_ **

A man stood on the Citadel steps, addressing his companions with misty eyes and courage unwavering.

They had found their way to Insomnia. They had found their way _home._

Long hair and scarred features carried a weathered Shield into a practiced bow. An advisor, with eyes milky and lip split, lifted a fist to his heart with the grace he had carried since he was young. A boy, freckle-dusted and starry-eyed, lowered his head a second too late, lashes clutching to tears as he bit his lip.

For a moment, the man considered turning back, but the sun had left the heavens for the home it made in his heart, filling him with the determination he had once lost. His father’s words floated through his mind, and the light reached through his throat to drag them out of his mouth in a final repetition of the sacred mantra.

“Walk tall, my friends.”

**_“you.”_ **

The last king of Lucis carried himself through an empty throne room. He trained his eyes forward as he dragged himself up ruined stairs.

He let his hand glide across the arm of the throne for a moment, relishing in the familiar feel of the wood against his fingertips. His mind traveled to his childhood as he lowered himself into the chair, lingering over a hazy image of his father and wondering, for a moment, if he resembled Regis at all.

The sun was pulsing in his veins, spreading to the heirloom resting on his finger. Familiar words flew across his mind, orbiting his thoughts as he tried to build up strength.

“I’ve walked tall,” he whispered, choking out syllables. The warmth carried itself to his throat, and he felt the heat untangle the words resting there.

_“I can do this.”_

As he commanded his blade to his shaking hands, he called for the power of past kings. In a moment, he was surrounded by the manifestations of his predecessors, heart pounding as they surrounded him.

One by one, their energies pierced his chest. He could feel the light wavering in his heart, fighting to cover the cracks formed by the barrage. He was falling apart, eyes clenched tightly shut as he endured a pain unlike anything he had ever felt. Sparks flew from his skin in flares of sunlight as ancient weapons found their ways to his abdomen.

His thoughts were blurred, filled with sunspots and pain. Another sword broke through his ribcage. He opened his eyes.

_“Dad,”_ the word forced itself from his mouth in a pained gasp. His father’s eyes were just as soft as he remembered them, and they carried a sort of pride and reluctance that was evident in the rest of his aged features. A smile spread itself gently, sadly across his lips, and Noctis was reminded of a boy with scraped knees who didn’t _need_ training wheels, anymore.

_“It’s okay, Dad,”_ he spoke slowly, his voice low and reassuring, _“I can do it.”_

Specks of sparkling dust lingered about the room, resting on torn tapestries as a king appeared before his son, sword in hand. Light was leaking through Noctis’s chest, shining as it formed a final, fragile barricade.

Regis lunged forward, sending his sword through his child’s heart in a flash of blue light and dragging the sun from within him. It poured from the room, reaching for the horizon as an old man carried his son to the heavens.

When dawn broke, sunlight leaked into the Citadel throne room, embracing the fallen king. It kissed his cheeks, burning his skin in an effort to breathe the warmth of life into his lungs. When his companions ran to his side, applying Phoenix Down to wounds they couldn’t heal with tears running down their battle-worn cheeks, sunbeams reached for their hands, and they grieved together.

_The light so loved Noctis Lucis Caelum._


End file.
